There's a Thin Red Line
by ImpalaLove
Summary: Preseries Stanford era. No spoilers. Some language because it's Dean's POV. "There's a thin red line on the map and it could lead you somewhere if you let it."


**Preseries (Stanford era). Dean's POV. No spoilers. Rated for some language.**

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><p><span>There's a Thin Red Line<span>

There's a thin red line on the map and it could lead you somewhere if you let it. You're not sure where that would be, but it would probably be better than here. There's a room and a bed with the sheets untucked in case you need to make your great escape. The carpet smells like cigarettes.

There's a car sitting in the lot with a fresh oil change and a shining finish, a place you've always called home. It sits and it waits for you, and you wonder why. There's a missed call on your phone that you haven't had the energy to check, but your phone keeps buzzing like a fly that's convinced glass is open air.

There's an open window and an open road, but first there's a bunch of missing people and an unnamed monster to find. When it's over you're bleeding, but it's not enough to cause worry. It just means pulling a needle through your skin and whiskey chased with whiskey because the pain meds are hard to come by and you're running low already.

The bed's not comfortable and the sheets are still untucked, always untucked, but you manage a few uneasy hours of drifting and rolling and closed eyes that maybe mean rest. You wake up and the world is still dead, or maybe it's just this tiny town. Either way you're leaving it behind. There's still that thin red line on the map, and it takes you somewhere else, but it's never where you actually want to be. That particular line has been crossed out, torn away, closed off since that day with a slamming door and a little brother who still needed a ride to the bus station. A silent ride that carried the heavy weight of an impending newness, a sudden shift in the Winchester world, soon to be one less. You tucked a stack of folded bills into his duffle when he wasn't looking. You hope he's happy. You want…

You drive.

There's an empty seat next to you, so you fill it with newspapers and files you shouldn't have access to and sometimes, when you're feeling desperate, your gun. It sits on the cold leather and every once in a while the fading light will hit it just right, and it will glint like a flame in the pupils of your eyes and the back of your mind, and you wish there was something to shoot.

The air is cold here and your phone still has that one voicemail but it's not from either of the two people you'd want to talk to. Still, it's important so you call back and say sure, you'll take the job. It's in Colorado, not too far from…

You drive.

Coming from Indiana, so it's a long trip and it gives you time to not think and turn the music up louder and wish there was someone there to tell you to turn it the fuck down. Or at least to complain about the fact that it's the same four tapes over and over again. And the fact that they're _tapes _in the first place. But your gun stays silent, doesn't say a word.

You don't even get to fire it for this job. It's vampires, which means beheading, which means it's a little more up close and personal. There's an open mouth and dead eyes and a detached body and you could use a little _less_ personal please. And then there's another. And another. Big nest. More than you thought. More than you can handle?

You land on the ground and your machete lands somewhere else so that's probably not good. There's a heavy, invasive weight and a slobbery bite and the most unpleasant feeling of having the life drained out of you. There's a twitch and a struggle and you move and you find cool metal against your fingertips and you swing, hit target, duck out of the way of another falling head. It rolls and rolls and doesn't stop until it's lost.

You wonder who's _really_ lost their head. It's a funny thought, so you laugh a little but it gets cut off a second later because you're choking on blood and holding a hand to the rest of the sticky red stuff still spilling from your neck. Stings like a son of a bitch, but you'll live to drive and hunt and drive another endless day.

This motel is nothing short of unimpressionable, except for the fact that you accidentally asked for two beds again. You'll probably remember it now. Because there's your bed, but then there's the other bed that's pushed up against the far wall away from the door. It's about as good at making conversation as your gun, but you feel it sucking the life out of you- another kind of vampire. You wonder which is more effective as you clean out the holes in your neck and notice a few blossoming bruises, cuts, scars. So many scars. More to come, no doubt.

You can't sleep but you're in Colorado and there are mountains nearby, so you drive to the base of one and stare up at it like a dog begging for kibble. It is a cruel owner. It offers you nothing. There's not enough light to make it to the top, but you try anyway, have to stop not even halfway up and realize that it's four in the morning and you're a fucking idiot. And it's fucking cold now. It takes twice as long to get down and way more missed steps, stumbles, reroutes. By the time you make your way back down to the bottom, you're hungry and nothing's open except the half-empty vending machine waiting back at your motel. Fritos it is. They're too salty. It reminds you to re-salt the door. It reminds you, because no one else is around to.

You forget to close the blinds so you're awake earlier than you should be with the fresh reminder of the idiotic night you've had not five hours ago. There's a diner and a table for one and a large stack of pancakes that doesn't taste as good as it looks. Same goes for the waitress. Afterwards, she scribbles her number on one of your old receipts and brays like a donkey at the half-hearted joke you make about leaving a tip. You don't remember her name. You lose her number not on accident.

There's another job and it's farther west and you try not to think about how close you are to…

You drive.

This one doesn't take you long to figure out because it's loved ones killing loved ones, so it must either be possession or a shapshifter. The job is hard and lonely, but you're glad it at least gives you an answer for things like this. At least it's a real monster. At least it's something you can kill. Shapeshifter for sure. It's living in the sewers like they usually do, and that's where you find it. Which was probably stupid, because it definitely has the advantage down here in the dark. Plus, it's chosen the form of a nine year old boy with long, shaggy hair that reminds you of…

You shoot.

You've been itching for the chance to pull the trigger, but this one physically hurts even though you know it's not really a kid. Not really. It thrashes once and cries out and then falls. Is still. So small. The bile that worms its way out through your stomach and onto the ground blends in with the discarded skin of whatever body the shifter had worn before. You wish it could've just stayed looking like that long enough for you to kill it. You can't look at the body any longer, so you leave. Or you try. Should've brought breadcrumbs. Makes you think of that story he used to love, the one about the Minotaur and the man who killed him, had to unwind a spool of thread through the labyrinth so he could find his way out when he was done. You know he'd be talking about it if he were here. Telling you you're an idiot for getting lost in the goddamn sewers. But if he _was_ here, you probably wouldn't have even gotten lost in the first place. You smell like literal shit by the time you find your way out, and you flinch violently when the water in the shower runs cold. You're still not clean, so you stay and you shiver and you try to scrub away the stench that clings to your skin like thick poison, winds its way between the sheets of your bed. You remembered to get a room with just one this time, but it does nothing to help you sleep. Might do the opposite. It's probably strange that you need to hear more than your own breathing to feel peace.

There's a lull in the world of ugly beasts, which means time to do nothing. You try not to let yourself think about the possibilities, about who you want to see and where you want to go but…

You drive.

There's a lot of tall buildings and you know they'd be considered beautiful by anyone who sees buildings that way, but you never have. It's just brick and stone and cement. Cars are a different story. Obviously. There's a crumpled piece of paper in your hand that's been printed out for several months, tucked into your duffle, and on it is a class schedule. You fold and refold it as you wait for 12:50pm; the final minute of Law and Ethics. There's movement as people emerge from the building and you look for him, but can't find the familiar mop or stride or jacket at first. You guess he's talking with his professor, and something pulls at your lips at the thought. It's a smile, you realize, and it widens immensely when you catch sight of him.

_Sammy_.

The name flies out from your chest and your memories and your soul and god, it feels like breathing. You haven't said it out loud or thought it inside your head for such a long time, and now you wonder why. It's like the first blink after a coma. It's like home.

He is different but the same, tall and strong and bright. Alive. There is a lightness about him that wasn't there before, a relaxed gait, and it suits him well. But still, you can see flickers of leftover habit. He walks with purpose, eyes sweeping the space in front, to the side, across the street; forever aware. You wish he didn't have to be, but still, you are prouder than you've ever been. You're glad you parked the car and opted for the bench- he'd have noticed it for sure. You watch and you watch and you wish you had a crystal ball so you could always know that he was here, looking just like this. If you had one, you would look at it everyday. It would take the place of the gun in the passenger seat.

The day leaves and you stay. You've followed him around for two more classes, ducked behind trees and buildings and bell-towers whenever he'd twist around with that searching gaze of his. Almost like he knew you were there. You almost wish you weren't so well trained. You almost wish that once, just once, you didn't leave his eye-line fast enough. But even this, just this, is enough. You see him open his arms wide and wrap them around a striking blonde, see their lips brush in the way that comes with familiarity and a routine he can't believe he can get used to. If you were next to him, you know exactly what kind of comments you'd make. You wish…

You turn to go.

There's a black car waiting for you to climb inside, so you do. There's a deep breath and a long sigh and a last look and an engine purring to life. There's still darkness. There's still a shotgun seat that can't be filled with a newspaper or a printed article or a gun or even a crystal ball. There's that thin red line on the map to nowhere and everywhere. But there's a smile on your face and there's Zeppelin turned up loud and there's a road already paved, waiting to be rolled over and eaten up under the rumble of tires and the passing of days.

You drive.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, and as always, feel free to leave your comments below! Also, we've got FIVE days until 10x10- get excited! I hope your breaksholidays have been wonderful. **


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